


Choice of Master Wormtongue, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe. Contains dialogue from the Return of the King novel. After the Scouring of the Shire, Frodo Baggins offers Grima Womtongue a choice, and a second chance. Will Grima accept the offer, or reject it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice of Master Wormtongue, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The Choice of Master Wormtongue

 

 

 

  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
“Grima!” Frodo called to the black-haired Man that crawled after the fallen wizard Saruman. “You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are strong enough and can go your own ways.”

Wormtongue turned his face from Saruman’s back and looked at Frodo hesitantly, staring the hobbit in the eyes before casting his gaze down to the dirt of the road. He was a strange-looking Man, Frodo thought; his right eye was clouded and pale, as if it was blind, and his pale face was studded with warts here and there. Lank, tangled black hair framed the wretched, sniveling visage, and flowed down around the stringy neck and scrawny shoulders. He crouched in the dust next to Saruman's ragged leather boots, not even proud enough to stand upright, but instead, he hunched on hands and knees like an animal...

No, not like an animal, Frodo realized. Like Gollum.

The former hobbit, once called Smeagol in his youth, had certainly perished in the fires of Mount Doom, the smoking furnace of the land of Mordor. Yet Frodo could not help but feel some regret and pity still for the wretched Gollum, who had lusted after the One Ring, to his own destruction. Gollum’s face and body had been wracked with inner torments and unquenchable desires, just like Wormtongue’s emaciated figure was. Like Gollum, Wormtongue lusted for something he would never possess, and that lust had driven him mad. His desire had driven him to commit terrible crimes, but his scheming had not worked; it had only ruined him. Who knew what lies Saruman had told to this pathetic servant to win his loyalty? Promised him his every desire, perhaps; pledged to him the remains of Rohan, once Saruman's Uruk-Hai had slaughtered the opposing Rohirrim. Anything Wormtongue wanted, he would have... once he sold his own people into the hand of the White Wizard.

And in the end, Grima had gained none of it. No lands, no wealth, no accolades, and no woman. He was the slave of a beggar, and a miserable slave at that. He huddled, coughing and whimpering, at the feet of his cruel master. He looked, to Frodo’s eyes, to be in a state of horrible indecision; his strange pale eyes darted and rolled from Saruman’s haggard features to the stern yet compassionate face of Frodo Baggins. He panted, his eyes watering more than ever, so that his face was slick with tears... then his eyes fixed and held onto Frodo’s.

Frodo held the Man’s gaze without flinching, silently urging him to get up out of the dust and come forward, toward him. Grima trembled, then came slowly forward on his hands and knees, whimpering as he slithered toward Frodo. There was a dim look of hope in his bloodshot eyes as he crawled; hope that Frodo would be a better master than Saruman had been. It was not repentance for his deeds, but it was indeed a sign of hope, Frodo thought.

'I told them to leave Saruman be and withhold their vengeance, in hopes that someday he may rise from his degradation. Perhaps the same can be true for this creature Wormtongue. Perhaps he will find the road that Smeagol did not.'

But as Wormtongue crawled, Saruman spoke in a harsh, mocking tone, and its effect was such that Wormtongue spun about in the dust, whimpering and crying, stretching his skeletal hands towards his master.

“No evil?" Saruman said, gazing for a moment at his servant's wet face. Then he sneered and looked toward Frodo. "Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?"

Wormtongue pressed his face to the dirt; his damp cheeks became smeared with dust. He trembled all over, his bruised and emaciated body quivering within its meager garb of colorless rags. He moaned something to Saruman's feet, a tortured denial of some sort that Frodo could not clearly hear.

Saruman ignored his servant. He looked to Frodo and the other hobbits, smiling his awful smile, determined to take a sour, pathetic joy in his taunts. "Then I will. Wormtongue killed your Chief; your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm?" He gazed down for a moment at his servant, who was now weeping openly, not even bothering to deny the accusation. "Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe." He looked again to Frodo, measuring his response. "Buried him, I hope--though Worm has been very hungry lately." He shook his head, smirking, as the hobbits began to whisper and mutter. "No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me."

Throughout this little speech, Frodo had kept his face impassive, betraying nothing of his emotions to the gloating Wizard before him. True, he felt horror and sickness at Saruman's words, and looking at Wormtongue, he could believe them. Almost, he was tempted to withdraw his offer of mercy to both of them. Saruman was a horrid mockery of his former self, a twisted and loathsome creature that rejoiced only in the misery and suffering of others; there was nothing else that gave his existence in Middle-Earth any meaning. Wormtongue, his servant, was himself vile, and a treacherous and venal man who had served his own interests by serving Saruman. His fortunes had fallen along with his master's, and of the two of them, Wormtongue was the most pathetic and wretched. He deserved no mercy. Neither of them did.

But then again, neither had Gollum deserved anything save contempt. Yet Frodo had shown him what compassion and gentleness he could. In the end, it had not changed Gollum; he had remained the same foul thing he had been for centuries. But Frodo had tried, at least; and as he had tried with Gollum, so he would try with Saruman and Wormtongue. It was the only thing he owed to them.

Wormtongue glared up at Saruman from his prostrated position on the ground. A glint of hatred showed in the tear-filmed eyes. "You made me do it, you told me to." His cracked, bleeding lips twisted back from his teeth, which were badly stained with what poor amount of food he managed to scrounge, and his starved form had the dangerous tension of a rabid animal about to spring. The hobbit onlookers sensed this, and their small hands clenched on their bows. There were creaking noises as already taut bowstrings were drawn even tighter, until they strained, shivering, near the breaking point.

Frodo felt the situation itself was near the breaking point, as well. Neither Saruman nor Wormtongue took note of the hobbits' heightened tension; they were lost in their hatred for each other, longing to maim and wound, and then take some bitter satisfaction in that.

"You always do what Sharkey says, do you, Worm?" Saruman countered with vicious mockery, and Frodo saw Wormtongue's pale, emaciated visage crumple as the pathetic man realized the truth in the Wizard's words. "Well, now he says 'Follow'!" Saruman lashed out, and Frodo shuddered as he heard a snap --Wormtongue's nose breaking against Saruman's boot. Wormtongue's strangled howl came a moment later; clutching his face, blood leaking through his fingers, Wormtongue cowered and moaned as Saruman turned to walk away.

Wormtongue raised his face from the ground. His visage was now caked with bloody mud, and again, he reminded Frodo poignantly of Smeagol.

Smeagol in the cave, dripping and shivering, his mouth and hands smeared with fish entrails, eyes dark with the belief that Frodo had betrayed him.

Smeagol, his face alive with hatred and lust as his jaws clamped and tore off Frodo's finger. The look of hatred fading, and turning finally to heedless joy as he held the shining Ring, which still encircled Frodo's severed finger.

Wormtongue crept away after Saruman, his movements slow and painful. But Frodo could see the tensing of Wormtongue's wasted muscles...

And so he called out, yet again, "Grima! I repeat my offer to you. Your master may have spurned it, but I still hold out the promise of shelter and safety to you. Take it, if you wish."

Grima's head turned toward him. Blood trickled from his nose. He stared vacantly for a moment...

...and then, with a movement so sudden it had to have been painful, he turned, and scrambled away in the dust of the road. Away from Saruman, and toward Frodo.

Frodo smiled.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

Saruman gave his fleeing servant a single startled glance. The glance soon stretched into a hard glare of contempt. He looked futilely to the hobbits, who were, to his outrage, no longer paying any attention to the former Istar who shuffled out of their pathetic little Shire. The hobbits' attention was focused on Grima son of Galmod, the weakling, the consummate traitor, who turned on one master only to lick the boot soles of another. His glare became colder that ever. Frodo's mercy had humiliated him and Grima had managed to upstage him.

He felt tired now of this old and weary existence, this frail old form that all Istar wore when they walked in the realm beyond the Undying Lands. Death would be preferable to this degradation.

But a thought then came to his bitter mind, as he walked out of the Shire: after the dissolution of his mortal frame, then would come the judgement of his soul by the Valar. If they did not forgive those such as Melkor and Sauron, what hope was there for him? He had but played at Sauron's game, and made of the Dark Lord's power a poor copy in himself and his own deeds.

He nodded to himself, confirming his plans in his mind: he would continue on, keep playing the game. Sauron was defeated, and the playing board was left free for Saruman to try his luck once more. After all, what other option did he have?

But in the meantime, he would not forget or forgive his humiliation at the hands of hobbit peasantry and one stunted, scrawny little Man.

"May you be forever cursed, Grima, son of Galmod," he whispered. His Voice was dry and cracked, and lacking in it's old powers of manipulation and persuasion, but surely even he had the power to curse this lackwitted fool Grima.

"You will never have rest in your wandering, and you will never know peace in the days that are left to you. And in the end, you will be consumed!"

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Wormtongue crawled up to Frodo, and collapsed at the hobbit's feet. Frodo smiled beneficently, and held out his hand to Grima. The former servant of Saruman stared at the hobbit hand that was offered him-- grimy and calloused from long, hard travel, and with the index finger truncated into a scarred stump. His gaze travelled up to Frodo's face, and the Man's own eyes filled with a strange look of awe.

"Master," Grima croaked.

"Yes, I know, Grima," Frodo replied. "I know that you have served several masters, and have been loyal to none of them. I know that you have a conniving and self-serving nature, and I do not expect that you have left 'Sharkey's' service out of repentance. But--" and his smile grew gentler-- "I do take your leaving his employ as a sign of hope, as should you."

"Always beaten, cuffed and kicked," Grima whined. "I never want to serve him again!" He looked, with a hateful glitter in his eyes, back toward the road that Saruman had taken out of the Shire.

"And you never will, if you make wise choices, Grima," Frodo said. "Come now, on your feet!"

Grima took the hand that was offered him, and with a tug from Frodo, he managed to push himself onto his own two feet. He wobbled for a moment, then recovered his balance. The hobbits around him slowly lowered their weapons.

"Food?" Grima asked hopefully.

"Yes, food," Frodo agreed. "Come along with me, and I'll find something for you."

As he walked away, he heard Grima say to himself in his hoarse, broken voice, "A good master. Yes, good master for poor old Grima."

And Frodo shivered suddenly at those words... for again, he was reminded of Smeagol.

  
  
*~*~*The End*~*~*


End file.
